Broken Angel Read online

  Back Cover Copy

  One rule: don’t lose.

  When Gabriel Morgan’s sister disappears somewhere in New York’s underground, he’ll do anything to save her. But finding her is only the beginning, because Marcus Slade won’t let her go for less than ten million dollars—earned through Gabriel’s blood.

  Slade, one of five ruthless leaders of an organization identified only by a symbol, runs hookers and street fighters, and never gives up what’s his. Including Gabriel’s sister. To win her freedom, Gabriel is forced to undergo a brutal training program with Slade’s top fighters in order to become one of them. He is branded, broken, given a new image and a new name.

  In the ring, Gabriel is known as Angel…and he does not lose.

  Because the price for losing is his sister’s life.

  Contains violence, blood, and more violence.

  Highlight

  “You’ll fight for me, Mr. Morgan. I happen to have something you want.” Slade walked to the door, opened it and leaned out. “Get in here.”

  “What is going on?” came from beyond the entrance in a woman’s voice tinged with fright. “Apollo, let go of me! Please. Tell me what’s happening...”

  Gabriel’s chest became unbearably tight. He pushed himself to his feet, no longer caring what Slade said or did, and took a stumbling step toward the door, and another.

  He stopped. An enormous black man filled the entryway, glared at him and stepped through, pulling a dark-haired woman in after him. Her head bent forward and cascading hair hid her face, but he didn’t have to see it. He’d known the instant she spoke.

  She lifted her face. Her eyes met his. “Oh, my God.” One hand flew to her mouth.

  He barely managed to remain standing. He swallowed hard, but the lump in his throat stayed.

  Lillith.

  Broken Angel

  978-1-61650-109-9

  Copyright © 2009, S. W. Vaughn

  Edited by Mary A. Murray

  Book design by Brian Hunter

  Cover Art by Renee Rocco

  First Lyrical Press, Inc. electronic publication: January, 2010

  Lyrical Press, Incorporated

  17 Ludlow Street

  Staten Island, New York 10312

  http://www.lyricalpress.com

  eBooks are not transferable. All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission.

  PUBLISHER'S NOTE:

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  Published in the United States of America by Lyrical Press, Incorporated

  Table of Contents

  Back Cover Copy

  Highlight

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  About SW Vaughn

  About the House Phoenix Series

  More From Lyrical Press

  Dedication

  For my boys.

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to everyone who’s been involved in this story, from the readers who’ve sent me notes asking for more to the family and friends who’ve spent hours casting the movie and talking about these guys like they were living, breathing people. No writer could ask for more than that—it’s the highest honor, and I’m humbled every time. Thank you.

  Special thanks to Mary Murray, editor extraordinaire, for the guidance in honing my craft, and for loving the story; and to Renee Rocco for putting it out there and designing the cover of my dreams.

  Chapter 1

  Not far from Gabriel Morgan’s feet, a used condom festooned a patch of brittle weeds jutting from a crack in the concrete. Cigarette butts, crushed plastic cups, and the occasional spray of brown glass littered the sidewalk near the entrance to another nondescript bar in Brooklyn. A dented aluminum sign above the door proclaimed Bottoms Up. Neon letters buzzed and stuttered, and the ‘tom’ section flickered on and off at irregular speeds like a strobe with a coke habit.

  He grimaced and set his gaze on the door again. The names changed, but the landscape stayed the same. A typical stench loaded the night air: smoke, cheap beer, vomit, sweat, the acrid odor of urine. The usual sounds battered the inside walls and escaped to assault his ears. Bass-boosted music mimicked the beat of a heart. Between thuds, raised voices became a torrent of incomprehensible words, while the intermittent scrape of a stool chair fought through the general din.

  A hundred bars like this one lay behind him. If he had to, he would search a thousand.

  More. He’d search more.

  A lead from a two-bit dealer at a fight last week had brought him to this bar. The dealer had assured him tonight’s entertainment would point to the organization.

  He’d heard the line before. It no longer inspired hope, only a grim determination.

  The bar door burst open. He moved aside to avoid a collision with a couple who looked ready to drop down and screw on the sidewalk. A hooker and her john. The john had a hand thrust down the back of the hooker’s scrap of a skirt. His fingers clenched and kneaded beneath the tight material, lifting the edge enough to show the curves of her ass. She dragged him by his belt buckle.

  They paused, and the john kicked the door closed behind them. A few stumbling paces later, he bent to her neck. She squealed and jumped. He laughed against her skin, nuzzled harder, and her mood snapped in a flash.

  “Hey! No marks, I told you.” She pushed his head away.

  The john laughed, a thick rasping sound. “Whatever, babe. I’ll just mark you where nobody can see.”

  “Yeah, I bet you will. Big man.” She grabbed his crotch, squeezed, and he gasped. “You gonna— Hey, what do you think this is, a peep show?”

  She was staring right at him. He held his hands up, backed a few steps and gestured to the bar. “Sorry. Just going in here.”

  With a sneer, the john stepped in front. “They don’t serve soda in there, kid. You heard the lady. Get lost.”

  “Do you own the place?”

  “No, but I know who does. And he ain’t gonna want you here.”

  “I’m legal age, and I’m going in. Excuse me.”

  He tried to sidestep the pair. The john laughed and
shoved him. Considerable power behind the push almost sent him sprawling.

  “I said you’re not. Don’t try to palm off a fake ID on me. Turn your ass around and go home.”

  His hands clenched into fists at his sides, but he held back. He’d already spent half a dozen nights in jail over the last six months thanks to his temper, and hadn’t minded much because at least he’d been fed. Tonight he had to get in that damned bar. One way or another.

  “What’re you waitin’ for? Beat it, kid. This bar is for big boys.”

  The hooker stifled a giggle and put a hand on the john’s arm. “Cortez, c’mon. I’m getting bored. Let them handle him inside, honey, okay?”

  An odd name, Cortez. It seemed he’d heard it somewhere, maybe even from one of the dealers he’d talked with. His mouth went dry with anticipation and he reached in his jacket for Lillith’s photo.

  Before he could extract it, a knife blade pressed against his throat, and he froze.

  “Don’t do anything stupid. You have no idea what you’re walking into here.”

  He met Cortez’s glittering gaze and tried not to breathe. “It’s just a picture,” he said as evenly as possible. “I’m looking for someone.”

  “I ain’t seen whoever it is, and neither has anyone inside. Now take your hand out, slow, and you better not have anything in it unless you’re looking to wear a red necklace.”

  The hooker sucked in a breath. “Stop it,” she whispered. “Let’s go. We’re gonna be late.”

  “Hang on,” Cortez said, not looking away from him. “I want to make sure this puta gets the point.”

  He removed his hand and spread his empty fingers. “Happy now?”

  The knife pressed harder, then Cortez lowered the blade and it disappeared. “No. C’mon, Jess.” With an arm around the prostitute’s waist, he led her away.

  He stared after them, then turned to the bar, pulled open the door and slipped inside before he could talk himself out of it. The lights had been dimmed to a mellow glow. Hoping not to be noticed, he shuffled away from the entrance, spotted the bathrooms past the dartboards on the far left wall and made his way over. The raucous crowd paid little attention to him.

  Glad to find the bathroom empty, he glanced in a mirror and ran a hand over the roughness coating his cheeks. He’d been staying at a YMCA for the past few days, after he couldn’t come up with fifty bucks for another week in the sinkhole of a room he’d been renting over on the Lower East Side in Manhattan. The grand he’d come to New York with hadn’t lasted long. He’d discovered a few ways to make a fast buck since, none of them pleasant.

  He braced a hand on the sink and pulled out the photo he’d been trying to show the asshole outside. The woman frozen in the worn snapshot shared his coloring. Raven-black hair, warm green eyes and honey-gold skin. Lillith Morgan—his sister, his world—gone without a trace. If he didn’t find her soon he’d have to resort to those unpleasant alternatives, because he wasn’t leaving this damned city without her.

  Where are you, Lilly?

  The picture back in his pocket, he ran the hot water in the nearest sink and scoured his face and hands. He combed wet fingers through tangled hair. Nothing he could do about his bloodshot eyes, or the hungry look in them. He’d spent too many long nights at places like this, begging strangers to help him. For his trouble he’d received derision, humiliation and jail time, but precious little in the way of information.

  He grabbed a small stack of brown, grainy paper towels from the shelf above the sinks, dried his skin and scrubbed at his hair until it stopped dripping. There was a dark stain on his threadbare shirt—one of two he owned. He rubbed at the spot with the towels, and it faded a bit. A glance back in the mirror had him shaking his head. Despite the growth shadowing his lower face, he supposed he still looked young, even for his age. Twenty could get him in most places, but not all of them. He’d paid a small fortune for a slick license fudge that even the cops had never questioned. According to the DMV, he was twenty-two. He had to be if he wanted to find Lillith.

  The wad went into the trash on his way back out, and then he searched the bar for indications of his next goal. The location varied from place to place. Some had guards, others just a locked door the barkeep would let spectators through, if they knew what to ask. Occasionally the setup proved a bit more sophisticated, with metal detectors and stone-faced men in dark suits.

  A tall, heavyset man stood with folded arms in front of a door in the far right corner. Gabriel wound through the bar toward him and avoided meeting anyone’s eyes directly. The bouncer fixed him with a threatening stare.

  “I’m here for the action,” he shouted over the clamor.

  “Who said anything about action?”

  He produced a battered wallet from his back pocket and extracted a crumpled twenty, the only cash he had. Trying not to think about how he’d acquired it, he pressed the bill into the bouncer’s upturned hand. “Freddie said I’d find some here.”

  The bouncer grunted, reached back and opened the door. “Move along. Eli and Jeff’ll see to ya.”

  “Thanks.” Greedy son of a bitch. He entered a short hallway. The door closed him in, and two men ambled out from a recessed area at the other end of the hall. Keeping his hands clear of his body, he approached slowly. They regarded him with similar expressions of ridicule. The taller of the two nudged his companion and smirked.

  “Your turn, buddy. Have a blast.”

  “Ah, Jesus,” the other man groaned. “Who let you in here, kid?” He glowered and held up a hand. “Stop there. Hands on the wall.”

  He turned, bent slightly, and placed his palms against the cool surface.

  “Don’t move.” The guard shifted behind him. Hands clapped against his body in hasty rhythm, gingerly at first, gathering more force as the search progressed downward. Once he’d finished, the guard shoved hard against the small of his back and dropped him to his knees.

  “Got some ID?”

  He struggled to his feet. “Why should you care about ID? I’m already in.”

  “Just give it. I’m curious how old you are.”

  “Come on! I’m old enough.”

  “Shut up and give it.”

  He fished out his wallet and flipped it open to his driver’s license. The guard snatched the wallet from him. His eyes widened briefly, and he motioned for his buddy.

  “Jeff, c’mere.”

  The taller man approached with a grin. Eli tossed him the wallet, and Jeff’s smile faded. The stares they pinned on him raised his body hairs all over. “What? I’m legal.”

  “Yeah. Okay, pal.” Jeff handed the wallet back, and both men moved aside. “Go on down and do your business.”

  What the hell was their problem? Nothing in his wallet should have caused such a drastic attitude shift.

  He walked past and entered the recessed area. Another door. This one opened on a set of stairs going down, and a medley of familiar, unwelcome sounds. After a while, all street fights looked the same.

  Here we go again. He trudged down the basement stairs, already tuning out the flat smack of flesh meeting flesh. Thudding noises rose above the din of a crowd gathered to watch men beat each other senseless. What fun.

  He fished out Lillith’s picture and searched the crowd for fresh faces. He’d seen too many of these people before, talked to hundreds of freaks and degenerates. So far he’d learned only that she’d been seen in the company of prominent members of an underground community of street fighting, prostitution and drugs. Members of this organization were identified by a symbol—a five-colored star.

  In six months, he hadn’t glimpsed the goddamned star once. Maybe the organization didn’t exist, but he couldn’t entertain that possibility. No organization meant no Lillith, and he’d never find her.

  A skeletal brunette leaned against the wall, smoking something. It might have been a cigarette or a joint, or worse. He stopped and brushed back a greasy lock of hair from his eyes. “Excuse me, miss,” he sai
d. “I'm looking for someone. Have you seen this woman?”

  The brunette turned glassy eyes on him, blinked and tried to focus on the picture he held out. She gave him a slurred response. “Why? You a cop?”

  “No. She’s my sister.”

  “Oh.” The woman stared at the photo a few seconds longer. “Nope, haven’t seen her. Sorry.”

  “All right. Thanks anyway.” He walked away and searched the blur of faces for a new target. Most of them would say, “Are you a cop? No, never seen her before. Piss off.”

  Give up. The suggestion drifted, imploring and small. Not happening. He couldn’t stop. Six long months of searching and he’d just now come close. Someone here had to know something.

  He showed the picture to three more people. Got two “nos” and a “piss off.” The odds were good the next person would tell him off, too.

  Fists clenched in frustration, he entered the heart of the mob and headed toward the roped-off space in the center of the floor. The fighters, two shirtless men drenched in perspiration, panting, bleeding, circled each other like territorial toms after the same scrap of food.

  This close to the action, the stench he’d come to associate with these flesh-fests surged strong, carried on ripples of stale air from the fighters’ turbulent motion—a hot smell, like molten metal doused with brackish water, of pain and sweat, of victory wrought from punishment. Here the cheers and hisses became a deafening crescendo, a callous demand for more bloodshed. The fight wouldn’t end until one of the combatants collapsed and couldn’t get back up.

  Battling despair, he silently repeated the mantra he said after every rejection. Just one more time.

  He singled out a grinning drunk in a nine-to-five suit who swayed on his feet with a half-empty beer bottle clutched in one hand. Drunks usually stayed cheerful while they crushed his hopes. He approached, thrust the photo before the drunk’s face and shouted over the crowd.

  “Hey, have you seen her around?”

  The drunk looked from the picture to him. His grin widened. “I mighta seen her.”

  His heart thudded against his chest. “You have? Where?”